


It Goes Without Saying

by monimala



Category: The Young and the Restless
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gap Filler, M/M, POV Male Character, harder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-28 17:25:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3863131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monimala/pseuds/monimala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place in spring of 2015, during the cabin killer storyline. </p>
<p>
  <i>Everything is so far from what it should be that it's like being on a completely different planet. Except for this.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Goes Without Saying

He doesn't expect the kiss between his shoulder blades. Harding's mouth is too gentle, too tender, against the skin of his back. He thinks “Are you feeling okay?” and is startled a second time when those exact words are whispered into the curve of his neck. “Are you feeling okay, Fisher?”

All these months, and they still call each other by their last names. As if they're passing each other in the squad room and not quite touching, instead of naked and pressed close in an anonymous motel bed. “No,” he admits, settling into the band of Harding's arms, baring his throat in a silent plea for more kisses, more assurances. “I'm not feeling okay. I am so far from okay.”

Michael has cancer. There's a killer on the loose. A killer who could be tracking Kevin's movements this very moment...planting evidence in his car, or filming the two of them for a blackmail tape to be used later. Everything is so far from what it should be that it's like being on a completely different planet. Except for this.  _This_ , being swallowed up in Mark Harding's arms—the little spoon to his big, warm, hairy spoon—is familiar. Though it's usually the precursor or the follow-up to a round of mindless animal fucking and not...not a hug. Something so simple and intimate.

They  _don't_ hug. They don't kiss hello when they meet each other at the door of room 28 or room 12 or in the stairwell at the GCPD. There are no “I love you”s or “I miss you”s. They've never fooled themselves into thinking this is a romance. In fact, it's reckless and stupid. Harding's not out at work—because “it's no one's goddamn business.” And saying the word “bisexual” aloud can't be any more difficult than saying “arsonist” or “Silver Chipmunk” but Kevin has yet to try. If they get caught together, it could have consequences. It could be dangerous—and he stuffs that thought down somewhere deep inside, because he doesn't, can't,  _won't_ , think about finding Mark Harding dead in a cabin closet like Austin. No, he doesn't want to think about danger. Because this, right now, is where he's safe.

With lips ghosting over his pulse and his jaw and his cheek. With teeth teasing his earlobe. With a man—a very specific, maddening, asshole of a man—murmuring, “I've got you” and “Tonight you're here and nowhere else.” Mark's knee moves between his, and he spreads his legs instinctively. The lube is cold and slick, the length of cock warm and insistent and vaguely alien in its latex sheath. This isn't like earlier, when they slammed into each wall like pinballs and ripped at each other's clothes, mouths crashing and biting and growling invectives. Like the kiss that shocked him, it's a comfort. A promise. A reminder that he's not alone.

For a while the only sound in the room is their breathing, their bodies. The squeak of the bed springs and the thump of the headboard knocking into the wall. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out, to stop himself from saying anything he's not ready to say.  _Why didn't you call me, Kevin?_ Harding had been furious when Paul told the department about the cover-up.  _You should've called me the minute you found the body. You fucking idiot. You little shit. I could've protected you._ You call the people you love. You protect the people you care about. And they don't have that, right? They have sex. They have the basic physical connection of two people in the dark who need something to hang onto for a while. Sweat and spit and bruises and his own fingers wrapping around his dick and stroking in time to Mark's thrusts.

Kevin turns his face into the pillow. Even he doesn't want to hear what he shouts out when he comes. Harding's hips move one last time before he stiffens and shudders. And then he's sleepily rubbing his stubble-rough face into Kevin's shoulder and asking, “Better now?”

Yeah. Yeah, this is much better.

He's okay.

For a few precious, stolen, minutes, he's okay and truly alive.

But they still don't, can't,  _won't_ call it love.

 

 

\--end--

May 2, 2015

 


End file.
